


Sun Drop

by lacrimalis



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-05 18:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17923757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: After his humiliating defeat at the hands of the Guardians, Pitch narrowly escapes the now-feral Nightmares by traveling through the darkness between worlds.Weakened, Pitch is captured by a witch. And he meets a peculiar little girl.





	Sun Drop

In the Golden Age, the Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff’s botanical gardens were famed for their great beauty. The royal garden spanned a whole hemisphere of their planet, and contained every variety of fragrant cosmic blooms and exotic fruit-bearing tree to be found in the cosmos.

When the Fearlings came, only what was on the Moon Clipper survived their attack. Among its cargo were seeds, and when he was older and through with grieving, the Man in the Moon planted them in a humble little garden of his own on the moon.

Fruit trees and berry bushes and vegetable sprouts and flowers of the Golden Age sprang up around him, in so faithful a semblance of his youth that it made him melancholy to look upon. Despite his difficult feelings, he cherished the garden dearly. And among its thousands of specimens, the most treasured of all was the sun drop.

It was indigenous to the homeworld of the starlight folk, from which the Man in the Moon's faithful companion Nightlight hailed. The starlight folks’ numbers had been dwindling with the onset of the Fearling scourge, but many aspects of their culture, and the flora and fauna of their homeworld, had spread throughout the universe by then. By then the sun drop had become a symbol of the royal family’s power, for it was said that it granted them their long and ageless years.

This was why the Man in the Moon guarded his garden so carefully. Each blooming season, he instructed the lunar moths to prevent the garden’s pollen from falling to earth, for he did not want the humans to be troubled by the strange and mysterious powers its flora were rumored to hold. And so for a long time, such trouble was avoided.

Now, the Man in the Moon had attentive teachers in the lunar moths, and all the knowledge provided him by what books remained from his lost kingdom. But even the Man in the Moon did not know everything, and nature has a funny way of defying expectations.

For you see, it happened one year that those nocturnal blooms were heartily nourished by the darkness of the earth’s shadow, and they bloomed earlier than usual.

And before the Man in the Moon was any the wiser, a single drop of sunlight fell to the Earth below.

* * *

Pitch hurtles through tunnels of darkness, paying little mind to his destination. The Nightmares occupied a place in his mind for so long that they would surely anticipate any move he planned: this way, he could at least try to throw them off his scent by not planning at all.

The void between worlds buffets him into loops and whorls of inky black, and when the hoofbeats of his pursuing Nightmares are a distant echo, and then gone at last, he thinks into the darkness with desperation:  _ take me somewhere isolated—somewhere no Nightmare can take hold. _

For a moment, he’s ejected into a type of void he’s had few dealings with. It stinks of Pookan time travel, and perhaps  _ that  _ is the key–travel back in time, before the Nightmares existed, and warn himself off the whole affair. Or at least warn himself about Jack Frost.

Pitch reaches out and grasps, and catches a tendril of darkness. It feels foreign, but all darkness is essentially of the same kind, and it responds to him just as readily.

The shadows loop around him, and quite abruptly he’s ejected into the world with such force that it sends him careening through the air. He transforms hastily into a raven, flapping his wings to try and break his fall. He only half-succeeds, his delicate avian rib cage hitting the ground through the uncharitable barrier of a thorny shrub.

It’s only by the good grace of his non-mortal nature that it doesn’t  _ immediately  _ kill him, but it still smarts. And the thorns only add insult to injury. His knee-jerk reaction to struggle rewards him with scrapes and pinpricks for his efforts, and he forces himself to still when the pain begins to cut through the rush of adrenaline.

The raven’s round breast quivers as it catches its breath. Pitch gathers his bearings.

He’s deep in a swampy wood, under a solitary willow tree. Splashes of midday sun break through the canopy, casting bright shifting patterns on the ground. Shame he couldn’t have landed in the reeds and shallow water, or the gently swaying grass.

That’s just his luck, he supposes.

Pitch’s transformation into a raven had been helped along by the threat of immediate danger. Now that he’s no longer running for his life, it takes a much greater effort to do so. Slowly, painstakingly, Pitch dissolves into slippery black tar, dripping out of the thorn bush and onto the forest floor, where he slithers out from under the bush.

When he reaches a grass clearing, he turns back into a raven–black ichor burbling, slowly taking shape. It would be easier to move about in his human guise, but he’d rather get his bearings in this new world in a form that begs fewer questions–if its inhabitants can even see him at all.

And frankly, he’s not sure if he can manage such a taxing transformation just now.

Pitch hears a twig snap, and he cocks his raven’s head toward the sound.

A woman emerges from the bushes. Her hooded cloak and black curly hair cast shadows on the severe angles of her face, from which her dark eyes stare out at Pitch. She wears a dress of deep wine red, which shows no evidence of traipsing through the undergrowth–nor does her woolen cloak. Over one shoulder, she carries a fine leather satchel.

In her opposite hand, a broom.

_ A witch, _ Pitch realizes, but too late. He lunges just as she does, but  _ she _ clearly wasn’t just stripped of her loyal minions and beaten to within an inch of her life, and she captures him with ease.

Hands seize the raven’s thin legs and narrow throat, with such cruelty Pitch wouldn’t have thought possible in hands so soft and elegant. A common raven would have perished immediately. As it is, Pitch doesn’t think he’s far from doing the same.

“ _ Hello _ there,” the witch says in a low, delighted voice. “What have we here?”

Now that he’s been caught, Pitch suffers the witch’s handling in stillness. Physical harm is no threat to him ordinarily, but he’s in a bad way now, and the threat of greater harm is evident in the iron grip of her fingers.

“Nothing to say?” she asks. “Well, I’m sure you’ll change your tune.”

She shoves Pitch into her satchel, and he hastens to untangle his limbs before she snaps it shut over his head.

Darkness.

It’s not as welcome a sight as it once might have been.

* * *

From the lurch of vertigo, Pitch knows they’re moving at speed–she must have mounted her broom. No doubt taking him back to her lair.

Pitch spares a moment to despair over how terribly his grand scheme had gone awry. Jack Frost had been the lynchpin, he knows. He’d accounted for every guardian likely to pose a threat, and he’d dispatched them all handily. But Jack Frost had been an outsider–an  _ outcast,  _ even, and so his involvement and his capabilities were completely beyond the scope of Pitch’s plans.

If Pitch had been fortunate enough to travel into the past, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice--or even once, for that matter.

He stops hearing the wind whistling around the witch’s cloak, feels them slow. The sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves vanish as a wooden door shuts and latches, sealing Pitch’s fate.

“Rapunzel!” the witch calls.

Pitch faintly hears a young girl’s voice respond, “Coming, Mother!” and his feathers ruffle. Not  _ another _ blasted brat. He’ll be happy if he never hears a child’s voice for at least another hundred years.

“You’re back early!” the girl’s voice says, closer this time.

“Oh, don’t sound so disappointed!” the witch teases. “Didn’t you miss me?”

“No, I–of course I did, Mother...”

The satchel with Pitch inside begins moving again. “I was about to go into the market when I came across the strangest thing! Would you like to see it, my flower?”

The girl gasps. “Yes, yes!” she cries with delight.

Everything is still for a moment, and Pitch welcomes the reprieve.

“Yes, what?” the witch chides, and there’s an edge to her voice that unsettles Pitch. Not that everything about her wasn’t unsettling already.

A sound of scuffing shoes on a stone floor. “Yes, please, Mother,” the girl amends, sounding much more subdued.

“See, was that so hard?” the witch asks, but Pitch doesn’t hear the girl’s reply, because the satchel is rustling loudly as the witch opens it. She gropes around in the bag before her hand lands on him, and Pitch braces himself for the witch’s harsh grip.

But it doesn’t come. With theatrical kindness, the witch lifts Pitch out of the bag and places him gently on the table. He stumbles on clawed feet, but gains his footing.

The raven stares at the little girl. She looks no more than eight, nine, with blinding blond hair and enormous green eyes. Rosy cheeks.

Pitch hates her already.

The girl–Rapunzel, Pitch supposes–gasps and smiles, before covering her mouth with her hands. “What kind of bird is that?” she asks in an awe-struck voice.

“It’s a raven,” the witch replies. “I knew I just  _ had  _ to bring it back, once I saw how gravely injured it was.”

_ No thanks to you, _ Pitch thinks acidly. The witch smiles cruelly down at him while Rapunzel isn’t looking.

“He’s injured?” Rapunzel asks, her excited tone winging away in the wake of deep concern.

“Oh, yes. Took  _ quite _ a nasty fall, poor thing.”

Rapunzel reaches out to the raven, which clacks its beak menacingly at her fingers. She recoils.

“Whoops! Careful, my dear,” the witch says with a light-hearted chuckle. “You never know how a wounded animal might behave.”

Rapunzel's eyes widen fearfully, and she takes a step back. Her fear nourishes Pitch, and it's a balm to his weakened spirit. Just to see how much more he can squeeze out of her, he caws loudly and flaps his wings. She jumps in alarm, and the fear spikes with increasing returns.

He'd give chase and  _ really _ give Rapunzel something to be afraid of, but whether the witch was exaggerating or not, she wasn't wrong about his being injured. He won't try and fly until it's to make his escape, the better to conserve his energy.

Pitch settles down, grooming his feathers with his beak.

From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of movement on the witch's face. 

A smile of sinister delight has made its home on her already severe countenance. Pitch shivers and takes a step back, not knowing the intent behind the expression.

“I think we have a bird cage around here somewhere. From your sparrows, remember?”

Rapunzel's fear vanishes in an instant, and in its place Pitch senses vague impressions of guilt, shame, and sorrow. Not his usual fare, but he can't afford to be choosy.

“It's in the storage closet...” Rapunzel murmurs.

The witch sighs dramatically. “Rapunzel, don't  _ mumble. _ ”

“Sorry, Mother... I'll go get the cage.”

The witch flaps a hand in a dismissive gesture. “No,  _ I'll _ get it. Wouldn't want you getting distracted in there again, now would we?” Her tone is teasing, but when she taps Rapunzel's nose and glides gracefully away, the girl doesn't smile. Instead she stares at the floor, shame-faced.

Pitch is glad the witch is gone, at least for the moment. The woman sets his teeth on edge -- or she would, if he had any teeth.

The sound of wood scraping against stone jolts Pitch back into the present. Rapunzel is seated in one of the chairs at the table, her chin in her hands.

Pitch hops clear across the table, just short of falling off the edge, unnerved at being caught off-guard.

Rapunzel startles at his flailing. “Oh! I'm sorry for scaring you,” she says, looking contrite.

Pitch turns away imperiously and ruffles his feathers at the galling insinuation.

Beyond all his wildest expectations, Rapunzel  _ laughs _ . Pitch swings his beady black eyes around to glare at her. She makes a poor attempt to hide her giggles. “Sorry! I don't mean to laugh...”

Rapunzel's incaution strikes Pitch as  _ very _ peculiar. As far as she knows, a dumb animal had snapped at her not minutes ago, yet here she is trying to make conversation with it. And  _ apologizing _ , as if she thinks it could understand her.

Looking down at the table, Pitch realizes there are only two chairs. Rapunzel and the witch live here alone.

_ Well, that certainly explains it _ . The witch doesn't seem like enjoyable company. Small wonder her daughter's lonely enough to befriend wild animals.

Pitch puts a pin in that observation in case it comes in useful later, then turns his attention to the room at large.

It's a spacious, circular thing with stone floors and walls, and a wooden ceiling. Children's drawings cover the walls - so the witch must not keep  _ such  _ a tight leash as all that, if Rapunzel is allowed to draw on the walls.

Curiously, there's no door - only a single window. They must not be on the ground floor.

Now, the ceiling -  _ that's _ interesting. It converges in the middle to a point, replete with rafters. Obviously the top of the building - and a potential escape, if that drawstring goes to a sunroof like Pitch thinks it does.

No telling when the witch will be back. He'll have to act quickly.

Pitch springs from the table in flight -- only to tumble to the stone floor instead. He wheezes as Rapunzel's chair scrapes back and she rushes over to him.

_Too weak to even_ _fly._ Pitch suspects the witch's tender mercies are responsible for that. _So much for the sun roof. Or the window, for that matter,_ he realizes with creeping dread. Even if they're only on the second floor, Pitch probably wouldn't fair well against a fall from that height.

Pitch consigns himself to laying on the cold stone while he regains his bearings. Evidently Rapunzel has other ideas, because she gathers him into the lap of her dress before he regains enough motor function control to peck her hands for her trouble. Though his injuries protest at the movement, she handles him with surprising competence.

_ Fool girl, _ Pitch thinks with a huff. A wild animal wouldn't be  _ comforted _ by proximity to a human. She's lucky he  _ isn't _ a wild animal, because, well.

It doesn't feel  _ terrible. _

“You shouldn't move around so much if you're injured,” Rapunzel says. Pitch grumbles. “Once, I sprained my ankle on the stairs, and I had to stay in bed for a whole week!”

Pitch doesn't really care about Rapunzel's sprained ankle, but he  _ does _ care about self-preservation, and any insight Rapunzel can provide on the witch will help him in that regard -- even if she reveals these insights inadvertently.

He looks up at her and settles down in her lap.

Emboldened, Rapunzel reaches out to touch his face. Pitch rears his head back. “It's okay,” says Rapunzel. “I've taken care of birds before. They liked it when I scratched their beak.”

_ Ugh _ . Pitch takes comfort in the knowledge that he's setting Rapunzel up for a nasty surprise the next time she encounters an  _ actual _ wild animal as he bows his head.

Smiling radiantly, Rapunzel strokes the top of his beak. He makes a show of enjoying the attention so she'll be pleased with herself and keep talking.

Thank the shadows, she does.

“I had a pair of sparrows, and a nightingale,” Rapunzel says. “Mother brought home a book about how to take care of them. I did everything the book said, fed them and cleaned their cages... I thought they were doing fine. But then one morning, Mother told me they all passed away in the night. I hadn't been feeding them right, after all...”

It's only a guess, but given how carefully Rapunzel has been handling him _ , _ Pitch doubts the girl would overlook something as simple as her birds’ feeding schedule. And if illness was the cause, it wouldn't have claimed all three birds in one night. The witch probably killed them to torment the girl, or to use their components in some potion or spell.

This revelation does not bode well for Pitch.

If he wants to survive this, he'll have to prove his usefulness some other way -- and avoid giving Rapunzel a reason to be fond of him.

That ship has already set sail, it seems -- she's moved on to stroking the down feathers on the back of his neck, and he's disinclined to dissuade her.

The sound of footsteps alerts Pitch to the witch's imminent return, and his head snaps in the direction it came from. Rapunzel stiffens. Pitch looks up at the table, but it's too far to jump. He hasn't the foggiest idea how to tell the girl they need to pretend this...  _ touching moment _ never happened. Short of revealing he can speak  _ now _ , that is, and he can't see  _ that _ going well no matter how he imagines it.

But before dread can truly begin to gnaw at him, Rapunzel gathers Pitch in her arms and puts him back on the table.

Pitch stares at her as she stands innocently a few feet away, looking for all the world like she's never considered anything more interesting than standing exactly where the witch left her.

“Found the old thing,” the witch announces upon her return. She places it on the table with just a touch more force than necessary, and Pitch falls over. The witch laughs as if amused by the silly antics of a simple-minded beast.

But he  _ knows _ she knows better.

Pitch hasn't felt so patronized since his last one-sided conversation with the Man in the Moon.

The witch opens the cage, its rusty hinges creaking ominously. “In you go,” she coos, reaching for Pitch.

Pitch's eyes dart about for an escape. He finds none–save for the sympathy in Rapunzel's sad green eyes.

It'll have to do.

Pitch darts out of reach and barrels into the cage, causing it to rattle nauseatingly until the witch seizes it with both hands–slamming the door shut as she does.

“It's well-trained,” the witch observes with mocking surprise. Pitch glares at her as fiercely as he can. “Perhaps it's domesticated, after all.”

_ Blasted witch... _

“Can we keep it?” Rapunzel blurts out.

The witch gazes at Pitch with dark promise in her eyes, and evidently she's too preoccupied with looking threatening to scold Rapunzel for speaking out of turn or forgetting to say ‘please’.

“We'll see,” Gothel says. “Now, Rapunzel–I've still got to go to the market, so please return to your studies. I'll be back by dusk. And check on the raven every once in a while, will you? I'm counting on you, my flower!”

Rapunzel nods, hugs her mother goodbye, and vanishes into her room up a flight of stairs.

Dread mounting within him, Pitch slowly turns to the witch.

She leers at him in a way that makes him feel exposed, but she also looks... pleased. “You gave her a good scare, earlier,” the witch whispers conspiratorially. “I doubt she'll let you out of that cage. But if she does, be sure to give her a few more, won't you?”

Pitch hunches down as far away from the witch as he can, given the cage's small confines.

“ _ There's  _ a pretty bridie,” the witch croons. Her voice drips with slime. “We'll talk when I get back.”

* * *

When the witch leaves through the window on her broom, Pitch senses a small ember of fear spark to life right outside. It grows dimmer and dimmer as the seconds pass, until the distance drowns it out.

The witch is afraid. To leave her lair? It must have been too subtle for him to notice before–a deeply-guarded fear.

It's well worth committing the observation to memory.

* * *

Pitch dozes.

Judging by the sunlight streaming in through the tantalizingly  _ open _ window, it can't be an hour before Rapunzel, predictably, rushes back downstairs to open Pitch's cage.

“Sorry you had to wait,” Rapunzel apologizes. “I had to be sure Mother wouldn't come back again.”

Pitch steps out of the cage. His feathers are in complete disarray, and at this point he's beyond aesthetic considerations, but it's uncomfortable. He goes to pick at the loose feathers with his beak.

Rapunzel reaches her hand into his field of vision, waiting for him to look up before she strokes his feathers down flat for him. If she's going to do it so he doesn’t have to, Pitch isn't about to stop her. It saves him the trouble of craning back his bruised neck.

“I'd take you upstairs,” says Rapunzel, “but then I wouldn't hear Mother when she came back.”

Pitch weighs his options.

Helicopter parents like the witch tend to produce  _ extraordinary  _ liars out of innocent children. It’s plain to see that Rapunzel has a well-developed sense of what she ought to conceal from her mother.

But could she keep a  _ truly  _ astonishing secret?

Pitch sighs. “I'll know if she comes back,” he says, resigning himself to whatever Rapunzel's outlandish reaction will be.

Rapunzel's eyes widen. She retracts her hand slowly.

_ Here it comes,  _ Pitch thinks.

“How?” Rapunzel asks simply.

Pitch blinks. “Come again?”

“How will you know if she comes back?”

Pitch splays out his wings, then tucks them back against his torso–shrugging, in a way. “I'm a  _ magic _ raven. Obviously,” he says dryly.

“Wow,” Rapunzel breathes. “What's your name?”

“Better I don't tell you,” Pitch says, shaking his head. “Your mother may realize we spoke, if you slip and use it in front if her.”

“Does Mother know your name?” Rapunzel asks with a small, confused frown. “She didn't use it...”

Pitch gazes skyward. “No, but I  _ suspect _ she'll ask me soon enough.”

“Then what should I call you?”

Pitch waves a wing carelessly, flinching when it agitates one of his injuries. “‘Raven’ will do. But you're a creative child,” Pitch says, glancing at the wall drawings. They're quite developed for someone Rapunzel’s age, by his estimate. “It would make your mother least suspicious if you chose a name you found suitable. Particularly if you chose a feminine name, or a name unsuitable for a person.”

Rapunzel appears to give this some thought.

“I doubt your mother will care if you  _ don't _ have a name for me by the time she gets back.” Rapunzel continues to stroke his back gently even after his feathers have all straightened. “Now, if you would be so kind as to turn me loose out of doors, I’d be grateful.”

Rapunzel’s face falls, and ire rises within Pitch. He supposes she’ll beg him to stay and keep her company, now, explain that she’s so  _ lonely _ with only her wicked witch of a mother to talk to, and won’t he please stay, pretty  _ please _ ?

Children are a blight on this world and every other.

“I’m not allowed to go outside,” Rapunzel says quietly.

Pitch does his best not to let his irritation at the pathetic excuse show in his voice, but doesn’t quite succeed. “You seemed to have no problem doing things your mother might not approve of,” he points out.

“That’s  _ different _ ,” Rapunzel says earnestly. “I want to,  _ really _ , but–”

“Fine,” Pitch interrupts. “You needn’t carry me outside. But since you  _ want _ to help so badly, then kindly take me to the window.”

Rapunzel hesitates, and Pitch narrows his eyes at her.

Without a word, Rapunzel steps closer to pick him up, and she carries him to the open window, where she lifts up her arms so Pitch can reach the window sill. Pitch hops up, and he leans out to see if there are any landings by which he can make his way to the ground floor.

“Oh,” Pitch says when he sees the great height of the tower he's trapped in.

Rapunzel sighs in commiserate resignation, and Pitch finally understands what she meant when she said she wasn't allowed outside. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

Pitch redirects his gaze to the surrounding landscape. There is a grassy clearing with a pond at the tower's base, and beyond it high, concealing cliffs, and a verdant forest — where the witch had found him, most likely.

He won't get far without his powers of flight. He  _ could _ turn into a spider and climb down. But there's no guarantee he could manage the strength to turn back into something larger, and a spider would take _weeks_ to reach the distant city.

In the absence of fear to nourish him, Pitch would be unlikely to survive the trip.

He sighs, turning back to Rapunzel. “You wanted to bring me upstairs?”

“My bedroom,” Rapunzel supplies, spirits lifting. “I thought a pillow would be comfier than an old cage or table.”

Resigned, Pitch steps forward and allows Rapunzel to pick him back up. “Lead on, then.”

* * *

Rapunzel carries Pitch in her arms as she climbs the stairs. His capacity for speech revealed, he is finally able to divulge the extent of his injuries, and so Rapunzel makes the ascent with almost comical slowness.

“This is my room,” Rapunzel says shyly when they arrive.

The curtained four-poster bed is enormous for someone her size. The whole affair seems a bit lavish for a lone witch and her sheltered daughter, but Pitch reasons it's not impossible the witch came into some money, or even that she conjured the interior herself.

“Lovely place,” Pitch says, since it's clear Rapunzel is self-conscious about it for some reason. He doubts she has guests very often.

“Thanks,” she says with a smile.

Rapunzel makes her way over to the bed, carefully depositing Pitch on a pillow she’d evidently set aside for the purpose earlier, before clambering onto the bed herself.

Pitch watches as Rapunzel tucks her legs under herself to sit before him, like an attentive student. “Relax, this isn’t a lesson. As a matter of fact,  _ I _ have questions.”

Rapunzel nods, but remains seated exactly as she is.

Pitch stifles a sigh. “Perhaps you'd like to ask your questions first.”

“Are you really a bird?” Rapunzel blurts out.

“No,” Pitch says shortly.

“Then what are you? What kind of magic can you do? Where did you come from? Why—”

“Rapunzel,” Pitch cuts in, patience dwindling. Using her given name is enough to startle her into silence. “Why don't we take  _ turns _ asking questions? We'll both get what we want, and neither of us will get bored. I daresay it will almost be like having a conversation.”

Rapunzel nods, her cheeks reddening slightly. “Okay. Then... it's your turn, right?”

The tension in Pitch that had begun ratcheting up at the onslaught of questions eases slightly. He only has until the witch comes back to learn as much as he can. “Why aren't you allowed outside?”

Rapunzel frowns. “Mother says the outside world is dangerous. There's wild animals, and terrible people, and plagues and stuff. She's afraid I'll get hurt.”

Reason enough to keep her daughter cooped up, Pitch supposes—if there's any truth to it. “Do you believe that?” Pitch asks.

“I don't know,” Rapunzel says. “This tower's all I've ever known. Oh! That's two questions.”

Pitch curses inwardly. “So it is. My mistake.”

“It's all right,” Rapunzel says. “I'll just ask one, since you didn't mean to.”

Awfully generous of her, Pitch thinks. He expected someone with a mother like hers to cling to any advantage she could. Evidently, the woman has no intention of imparting her cunning onto the child.

“Can you tell me what you are?” Rapunzel asks.

Pitch comes close to saying 'yes’ and leaving it at that, because he  _ can  _ tell her—but he doesn't want that overflowing good will of hers to dry up, so he grudgingly gives her as straight an answer as he can.

“It's complicated,” Pitch says, mostly because he isn't sure he wants to tell the girl he's the  _ boogeyman. _ “I'm a... spirit, of sorts. I can take any shape I like, ordinarily, and travel in the blink of an eye. But I was weakened recently, by... circumstances beyond my control. So I must remain in this form until I've regained my strength.”

“That sounds awful,” Rapunzel says.

“It's inconvenient,” Pitch agrees. “Now, if you'd be so kind... What is your mother's name?”

“Gothel,” says Rapunzel. “Why do you...? No,” she stops herself, trying to think of a better question to ask for her turn.

Pitch waves his wing. “You can have two questions.” He doesn't want to wait around while she racks her little brain for something worthwhile to ask. That's all.

“Why do you want to know?”

Pitch shrugs. “Curiosity,” he lies. Rapunzel might be willing to disobey her mother, but he has no reason to believe the girl would willingly give Pitch the upper hand in a fight against the witch if she knew the power names hold.

Rapunzel seems satisfied with the answer Pitch gives, for she asks her next question promptly. “What do you need to get stronger?”

Pitch shifts on the pillow. “I'd rather not say.”

“Come on,  _ please?  _ Maybe I can help!”

“Very well,” Pitch relents. “Only negative emotions can nourish me. Fear, in particular.”

“Negative...” Rapunzel looks thoughtful, then her eyes light up in realization. “ _ That's _ why you snapped at me earlier!”

“Very astute,” he says dryly. He thinks of what he ought to ask next. Rapunzel isn't a reliable informant about the outside world, and she's biased about her mother. There isn't much left he can ask of her.

Except, perhaps, a small favor.

“There  _ is _ another thing that can give me strength,” Pitch says slowly. He had dismissed the idea at first, but...

Rapunzel perks up. “What? What is it?”

“Belief,” he tells her. “If you can  _ swear _ not to reveal it to your mother, and act as if you've never heard it in the event she mentions it to you, I can tell you my name.” Rapunzel bounces excitedly on the bed. There's probably no hope of Rapunzel fearing him at this point, but... “Spare a thought for me every once in a while, and I may eventually grow strong enough to fly away from this place.”

Rapunzel smiles wistfully at the thought, as if she, too, would like to fly away from her tower. “I promise.”

“Then you may know me as Pitch Black.”

“Pitch Black,” Rapunzel says, trying the name on for size. “Isn't that a color?”

“So named for the shadows I call my home.” Courting a child's fondness isn't something Pitch can  _ ever _ recall doing, but he realizes he must win Rapunzel's favor if he is to regain his strength. Gothel certainly won't help him do it.

It is for this reason Pitch omits the darker details of his nature, comporting himself as merely a shadow-dwelling shapeshifter that happens to subsist on fear.

“I... wanna tell you a secret, too,” Rapunzel says. She takes a deep, fortifying breath, then says in a rush, “My hair has healing powers.”

Pitch blinks. “I had wondered why it was so long.”

“The magic stops working if it's cut,” Rapunzel explains.  She pushes her hair aside to show Pitch a single lock of brown hair, growing from the nape of her neck. “But I could try to heal you!”

Pitch almost snaps that she should have said so earlier, but he manages to fight down the impulse. Gothel likely taught her to keep it a secret, and for good reason. Suddenly Rapunzel's forced isolation makes sense.

“I suppose,” Pitch allows, and Rapunzel sets to work wrapping him up in a bundle of her hair.

Rapunzel clears her throat and sits up straight. Pitch straightens, too. Perhaps there's an incantation?

“ _ Flower, gleam and glow... _ ” Rapunzel begins to sing, and just as she bids it, her hair begins to glow. It starts at the roots, spilling out like radiant white water in a vessel. It is  _ Rapunzel _ who has healing magic, not her hair. The hair is simply a conduit. Pitch wonders if Rapunzel knows this, and whether she inherited it from her mother's magic.

The glow grows in strength and length with each passing moment.

“ _ Make the clock reverse _

_ Bring back what once was mine...” _

As the light grows closer to the bundle where Pitch sits, he begins to get an impression of the magic, catch its scent. It's almost... familiar?

“ _ Heal what has been hurt... _ ”

The light reaches Pitch.

It burns.

“Stop!  _ Stop!” _ Pitch cries, struggling to escape the glowing bundle of light. Rapunzel hadn't wrapped it tightly, but as a raven Pitch lacks the coordination to escape it easily, and he becomes tangled in it. 

The light scours the darkness in Pitch, scrapes deep into his soul like the bottom of a bowl. Inside him, a hundred thousand screams beat against his brain.

He thinks he joins them in screaming. But he can't be sure, as the pain drives him into the refuge of unconsciousness.

* * *

“Pitch, I'm  _ so _ sorry. Can you hear me?  _ Please, _ wake up... Oh no, what have I  _ done... _ ”

Pitch groans. His whole body feels like an open wound—one that cuts deep into his soul. He realizes it was Rapunzel's fear that had awoken him, washed over him like a tidal wave. The enormity of her fear is  _ breathtaking _ , and he breathes it in with a gasp.

“Pitch!” Rapunzel cries with relief. She picks him up and hugs him, and he hisses preemptively at the pain it will surely cause his injuries.

But it doesn't hurt.

Though Rapunzel's light had inflicted a new type of wound on his soul, it has also accomplished what it was meant to. Pitch's physical injuries are gone.

Thinking the hug  _ is _ painful by his response, Rapunzel sets him down gently in her lap. “I'm so sorry,” Rapunzel says again, sniffling. “That's never happened before, I don't know—”

“It's all right,” Pitch manages. “I should have known better, when I saw your light...” He looks up at her crumpled expression as she wipes her cheeks, and Pitch realizes she must have been crying. For  _ him _ .

He's seen plenty of children cry, of course, and he supposes it  _ was _ for him, in a sense. But not like this.

“What happened?” Rapunzel asks.

“I mentioned I am a spirit that lives in the shadows,” Pitch explains, “but in truth, it's what I am  _ made  _ of. Light and dark...” he laughs weakly. “They don't go together so well.”

“I'm sorry,” Rapunzel says again. “I guess I couldn't heal you.”

“On the contrary,” Pitch says. He hops from Rapunzel's lap and stretches his wings before taking off, flying around the room once in a circuit before settling back on the bed. The brief flight exhausts him, but at least he manages it. Rapunzel's delighted smile finally chases the last of her fear away.

Ah, well. It was nice while it lasted.

“Though your magic is incompatible with mine, my physical injuries are gone.” At great cost to his energy reserves, unfortunately, but those would heal as well—faster, he suspects, now that he doesn't also need to wait for his physical injuries to mend.

“That's great!” Rapunzel says. “We should get you out of here before Mother comes back.”

“You read my mind,” Pitch says.

Rapunzel carries him downstairs, but stops at the table. “What do I tell Mother...?”

“Give me a moment,” Pitch says. Rapunzel sets him down on the table. “Step back.” When she does, Pitch kicks the cage onto the floor. The rusted hinges give on impact, and the cage door falls open.

Perfect.

“Tell her you heard that sound and came running, but I was already gone.” Pitch hadn't been the boogeyman this long without learning what sorts of lies parents were convinced by.

Rapunzel smiles, and she follows Pitch when he flies to the open window.

“Do you think you can make it?” Rapunzel asks.

The distance to the ground is daunting, and Pitch is unspeakably tired. But he has few other options, unless he wants to wait around to find out what Gothel has planned for him. “I'll be fine.” He looks out over the landscape. It's still a few hours before dusk, but he can't be too careful. He should leave now.

“Where does your mother go to the market, Rapunzel? Do you know?”

“Not exactly,” Rapunzel says. Pitch senses there's more, so he waits while Rapunzel drags over a stepping stool so she can see above the windowsill. “But she usually goes through there.”

Pitch follows the line from Rapunzel's finger to a small cave at the base of the cliffside. He can't be sure where it opens, but it's the same direction as the woods where Pitch assumes Gothel found him.

“Then I'll fly the other way to avoid her.” Pitch turns to Rapunzel, who is smiling at him, if a little sadly. “I'm grateful for your assistance, Rapunzel.”

Pitch bows, which he imagines looks strange on a raven.

Rapunzel laughs. “I'm glad I could help,” she says, “even though I'm sorry I hurt you, too...”

“I will manage,” Pitch says.

He is eager to go, but he hesitates. Perhaps it is a measure of his current weakness, but he can sense no other believers in this strange land—and he is anxious to keep the one he's made today. So that is why, though it is an  _ incalculable  _ risk to leave any part of himself in a witch's home, he reaches back and tugs a pinion feather from his wing.

It was already loose, anyway.

“Here.” He holds it out, and Rapunzel slowly takes it. “To remember me by. Keep it safe. Hide it somewhere your mother won't find it.”

Rapunzel nods gravely. “I will.”

“Perhaps we'll meet again,” Pitch says, though he plans to stay as far away from the witch as possible. Maybe when the girl has grown up and left the nest. “Goodbye, Rapunzel.”

Rapunzel leans forward and kisses his beak. Pitch stares at her, smiling and holding his feather delicately but securely, with both hands—close to her heart. “Goodbye, Pitch Black. I'll believe in you. I'm sure you'll get stronger soon.”

Pitch nods and turns away, then takes flight. He can feel Rapunzel watching as he glides around the tower and out of sight, away from the forest and the city further on.

_ That could have gone worse _ , he reflects, as he lands on a rocky incline on the other side of the cliffs. It's lucky for him Rapunzel was there.

Pitch makes his way across the wild landscape, taking frequent breaks to catch his breath. He keeps flying until he can no longer feel Rapunzel's gentle fear—fear of what she'll say when Gothel returns, and fear for Pitch's well-being.

Maybe if all children were locked up in towers, they'd be half as decent as Rapunzel.

**Author's Note:**

> fearlings: let's hide out in this dude's body, we'll be unstoppable  
> light from the golden age in rapunzel's hair: surprise, bitch, i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me


End file.
